


Sammy boy

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Collars, Face-Fucking, M/M, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6477199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few things he’s confident in. Knows how to give. Fingers cradling the curve of Sam’s skull so gently, so tenderly, he pulls. Thin pink lips part around his cock and Sam is so suggestible for this like he never was for all the other things Dean thinks should matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sammy boy

His hair curls around his ears when he sweats. Little wisps that frame his face. Baby sweet and soft. Pink flush high on his cheeks. Wet lips begging without words. He does his best to ask for what he wants with just a look, a flick of the tongue, a wag of his hips.

Naked head to toe except for the wide brown collar he wears around his neck. Scratched and soft with use. There’s a bronze tag that dangles from the middle.

Dean had gotten it on a whim. It seemed to fit then. Even more, anymore.

Sammy boy.

That’s the only information on the tag. Just a name. Not like his pup would run away.

Panting hot across wet skin makes Dean prickle. Pants unzipped and cock out. He’s still got his shirt on. Calloused fingers carding through Sam’s long hair. It’s so soft. Dean doesn’t know how his brother gets it to smell so good for all the cheap motel soap. Maybe he’s got something hidden in his duffel.

Dean doesn’t like to think that his brother’d ever keep secrets from him.

But ever since Stanford, Dean knows there’s a whole world out there that Sam’s a part of which he’d never be able to know. At least there are some small things that breach the then and the now. Things like a collar. A command.

“Good boy.”

Sam preens under it. Chest expanding like something binding him’s been snipped and he can breathe. Ghosting over Dean’s hard cock. Long tongue wet lapping, lapping. Sam’s knees and hands don’t leave the harsh mustard yellow carpet. Wedged between Dean’s spread thighs. Sam rests his head on Dean’s lap and nuzzles.

God it’s so fucking sick.

Dean’s never been right in the head.

But neither has his brother.

Murmuring quiet praise and petting his good boy, his good pup, Dean pays all the attention he’s got to Sam. It’s a small price. For the adoration and the adulation. Sam’s always looked up to him. For what to do and how to do it. Dean was never good with that burden. But god did he try.

There are few things he’s confident in. Knows how to give. Fingers cradling the curve of Sam’s skull so gently, so tenderly, he pulls. Thin pink lips part around his cock and Sam is so suggestible for this like he never was for all the other things Dean thinks should matter.

He can settle for this.

The tag on Sammy boy’s collar clink when he moves, bobbing his head up and down. All shaggy hair and baby pink cheeks. Sweetheart. Baby boy. Pup. Little brother. There are so many names Dean’s given to Sam. So many names that Sam’s accepted.

They’re so fucking sick. The both of them.

Sam doesn’t talk the moment the collar is put on to the moment it’s taken off. Offers his mouth, his ass, everything he’s got. Trusts Dean completely to handle him. Give him what he needs. It seems imbalanced to Dean. But he tries so goddam hard.

Cock head sliding along the soft heat of Sam’s tongue. Bumping against the back of his pup’s throat. Muscle fluttering around him. Seizing. Pulling down. Sam pushing his ass out and angling his neck to take it deeper. Dean let’s him know.

“Such a good fucking boy, aren’t you.”

Eyes glassy wet with tears not yet spilled blink up at him. Hazel. Green. Brown. Christ, for all the times that Dean has stared and all the things he’s tried to think of - grass, stream beds, leafy canopies - he can’t ever get it right.

Sam watches him.

Tongue working. Wet sloppy sounds of it. Chime of his tags. Dean pushes a finger down under his collar and tugs. Tightens it. Neck working. Saliva dribbling out the corner of his pink tender mouth. Dean grunts and works his hips up. Meets Sam midway.

Fucks his mouth like he’s just an animal.

It works for both of them.

Pulling out on the cusp, Dean comes all over his young brother’s pretty polaroid face. Striping white against the pink flush and the smattering of moles. Likes to watch it drip down, watch Sam lick after it. Tip of his pink tongue pointed and searching. Little bob of his adam’s apple as he tastes. Swallows. Eyes flutter. Smile.

There.

That’s it.

That delicate little boy smile of unabashed pleasure and pride. Seeking approval. Affection. Dean would tap himself dry to give it all to Sam.

“Fuck, Sammy.”

Mouth chasing his own taste on his brother’s cheeks. Little huff of a held back giggle like it’s too much. Gotta keep something close, play it tight, keep it hidden. Gotta have those secrets. Dean chases it with his tongue, his mouth. Kiss here. Kiss there.

Let me in.


End file.
